Four Redwall Parodies
by saber-otter
Summary: Another parody added after more than a year of silence! Now in addition to your standard Redwall, Salamandastron, and Slave Parodies, prepare to watch the Revenge Tale be mocked as well!
1. Tomato A Redwall Parody

TOMATO: A GENERIC REDWALL TALE AND PARODY  
  
There was a flash of lightning! A clashing of swords! The guffawing of drunken vermin!  
  
A band of weasels tottered unsteadily down the path, taking long pulls of grog and singing raucously at the top of their voices. Their leader was a scrawny beast who went by the name of Stinky Dirtfur. As they rounded a band, he noticed a huge sandstone building glowing blue with the soft moonlight. Stinky belched loudly and giggled, "Hey, let's conquer that!"  
  
The building was Redwall Abbey (duh, what did you think?), and inside there was a feast going on. It was the Feast of Half-Past-the-Second-Week-of- Summer. The table had long broken under the weight of breads, cheeses, pastries, trifles, scones, cakes, rolls, pies, ales, cordials, wines, beers, and grogs (for any vermin in disguise). There were also fruits, vegetables, chocolate, cinnamon buns, biscuits, cookies, rice, Cheetos and lime Jell-O with carrot bits...  
  
Mice, squirrels, moles, and half a dozen other species of cute little animals resembled furry balloons as they eagerly shoved food down their chubby faces. Many of the elders were now tackling their 2,458,689th feast and weighed well over 75 pounds (quite a feat for those who were mice).  
  
But one mouse stood aloof, lean and buff for absolutely no reason except he must be the hero. (That or a warp-speed metabolism.) Just as the intoxicated weasel outside slurred his intention to conquer Redwall, the mouse passed out cold.  
  
The others stopped eating and looked over quizzically. Heart attacks were common among the average Abbeybeasts due to rampant obesity, but the young mouse Tomato was too "in shape" for that.  
  
Abruptly Tomato stood up and cried, "Martin appeared to me...there's a horde of vermin on the warpath!" As he said this, the legendary sword of Martin the Warrior suddenly flew off the wall and slid to a halt at the young mouse's footpaws. Picking up the weapon, Tomato struck a heroic pose and dashed outside.  
  
One or two of the other Abbeybeasts made as if to follow, but they simply rolled out of their seats, gave up, and resumed eating.  
  
Stinky Dirtfur threw aside his empty tankard and became sober very rapidly. His band, also alert (despite their blood alcohol levels of 50%), drew their weapons as they noticed a lone mouse running toward them with a very shiny sword.  
  
Super shiny.  
  
So shiny they were mesmerized by it.  
  
Stinky let his cutlass drop to the dusty path, a trickle of drool at his mouth corner, staring at Martin's sword. "Pretty..."  
  
CHOP! SLASH! JAB! TAP!  
  
"Tap??" muttered the last living weasel confusedly, rubbing a bump between his ears.  
  
Tomato's eyes were harder than last season's fruitcake as he gestured with the sword. "Didn't you read the Vermin Code? When you narrowly escape with your life, you're supposed to call your reinforcement horde."  
  
"Reinforcements?" puzzled the weasel, but two seconds later there was a great shout.  
  
"KIIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!" And 256 score ninja weasels ran out of their hiding places and surrounded Tomato.  
  
The mouse was undaunted. "Hiiiiiiiiiiiya!" Miraculously outmaneuvering all 5,120 vermin, he slew every last one of them within ten minutes. Wiping Martin's sword unconcernedly, he trotted back to the Abbey.  
  
"256 ninja weasels?" came the muffled voice of the Abbot, who was so fat he couldn't see over his stomach even while standing.  
  
"256 score, Father," corrected Tomato gently, laying the marvelous blade on the floor.  
  
"Brave warrior, my son," wheezed the Abbot. "I...erk!"  
  
"Heart attack," diagnosed the plump squirrel healer before the fat mouse hit the stones.  
  
"That means," cried a spherical hedgehog excitedly, "that Tomato can be our Abbot now!"  
  
"And champion! And Official Ninja-Weasel-Slayer!" other voices yelled.  
  
The new Abbot/Champion/Slayer smiled as the replaced Martin's sword on the wall and went to the table. Picking up a scone, he scarified it in one bite.  
  
And gained a pound on the spot.  
  
"See, he'll make a fine Abbot," remarked a vole to her shrew companion. 


	2. Blazing Crimson A Salamandastron Parody

...Thanks to everyone who reviewed my Redwall parody! After reading your suggestions, I put together a little generalized Salamandastron story, with some story elements that I missed the first time around. Hope y'all enjoy!  
  
(Oh, and for the one who asked...I do go to LPF, and I know Dartpaw, but I'm actually Dakkan Strongrudder. Hi! waves)  
  
...And on with the tale!  
  
The sun rose over the western shore, its red light highlighting the bulk of the mountain.  
Salamandastron!  
Place of the fire lizard, stronghold of badgers and hares, home of the world's biggest damson pudding...  
And, as it quite frequently was, about to be under seige.  
"M'lud?" a smartly clad hare called softly as he tapped the solid door of the Badger Lord's bedchamber, ready to make his morning report.  
The door burst open with a loud explosion of noise. The huge badger Strongstripe paid little heed to his officer as he barreled from the room, so taken with the Bloodwrath that his headstripe was beginning to tinge pink.  
The hare came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, his master long gone. Rubbing his head ruefully, he wondered where that little eruption of rage had come from. Climbing slowly to his footpaws, the hare limped over to the window and looked out.  
Several thousand wave vermin milled about on the shore below, their ships anchored close to the shore.  
The hare pulled a face and massaged his head some more. More vermin! Crud, this was the third time this week!  
  
Brinebloood the searat paced before his captive, tied to a stake on the beach. He was the leader of the entire fleet, cruel as the Northern wind and blissfully unaware that the name on his birth certificate had been penned by a partially literate stoat. "So, what do ye expect me t'do with ye, hare?" he leered nastily.  
Lieutenant Portbelly sat in the sand, paws smarting from the splintery wood he was bound to. He bared his teeth and growled, "Kill me, I 'spect, eh wot! Blinkin' cads like yourselves, sah! No honor at all!"  
Brinebloood kicked a bit of dune grass moodily, but then an idea struck him. "Arr, wot if I offered ye a position in me fleet, eh? Second in command, with yore own flagship? O'course ye know know ye've got more leadership skills than the bozos I have now."  
All of the nearest secondary characters amongst the horde furrowed their brows a bit in indignation, but the others (there merely to meet a number quota) stared blankly into space.  
Portbelly threw his head back dramatically and struggled in his bonds as he delivered his heroic response. "No, sirrah! I would not betray my great Lord to aid the cause of blackguards such as y'selves, wot! Count me out of your dastardly plans!"  
There was a pause, then Brinebloood sniggered. "Have I seen you on Broadway before?"  
The hare spat. "Shuttup!"  
Chuckling, the searat stood tall and spread his paws wide. "Then I have no choice...until you change your mind, I will imprison you in the Inescapable Tarp of Death!!"  
Immediately the vermin all around began chanting excitedly. "Tarp! Tarp! Tarp! Tarp! Tarp! Tarp!"  
And a big, burly trio of stoats brought the tarp forward. Rattling the stiff blue material with a wicked grin on his face, the biggest pounced with his brothers, wrapping the hare up tight.  
"There, he won't escape now," sniggered Brinebloood. "So down to business. HEY!" he called up to the mountain. "SURRENDER NOW, OR DIE!!!"  
The challenge wafted up to the Badger Lord. He had fallen asleep on a windowsill, exhausted from his first outburst. The spirits of his relatives had taken that opportunity to leak in through his ears and begin chanting advice at him. They fell silent as the rat's shout entered Strongstripe's ears. But to their annoyance, he ignored it and slept on. His father's image came up and kicked his dream self. "Get up, y'big oaf!"  
The badger rose up in a great whirlwind of paws, remembering the vermin horde outside and urged on by his spirit relatives. His entire body was glowing bright red as he roared and jumped out of the window.  
  
Portbelly lay deep in thought, staring at the walls of the tarp in the blue light that filtered through. The searats had bound it with a rope and left him. Racking his brains for an escape plan, the hare considered all his options. There was no seam he could escape through; the wave vermin had tied it too tightly for that. Obviously he couldn't untie the rope from the inside, so it looked like he was stuck.  
"Blast it," he muttered, shifting position inside his blue prison. Suddenly a beam of bright white light came from behind. Curious, he turned and saw that the dagger in his belt had cut a slit in the tarp. "Tarps are cuttable?" he wondered with a smile, slashing the rest of the way out. He stood up, noting with relief that the entire group of vermin were facing the mountain and not him. And then a red flash caught the corner of his eye. He looked up.  
Froth flying from his muzzle, teeth bared, and way too bright to look upon for long, Strongstripe had nearly completed his freefall from up high. The only problem? By his trajectory, Portbelly judged that he would hit the ground mere feet from the unattentive Brinebloood.  
The hare made one great leap, kicking Brinebloood aside. "Take that, wot!"  
SPLAT!  
And so ended the life of the searat Brinebloood. The shock wave from the badger's impact floored the rest of the army, who began to rise unsteadily as Portbelly watched.  
The hare grinned and tossed a pawful of shells. It was time for the woodlander's favorite method of sparing vermin. "There, you see the might of my great Lord! I assure you that our army inside the mountain has ten times that power! Flee now or die! You have," (he saw that seven shells had landed faceup) "the count of seven before we come after you! One...two..."  
"Back to our island port!" bellowed Brinebloood's second-in-command fearfully. The wave vermin fled in terror and immediately set sail. They were going to meet a nasty shock in a few weeks when they would not find their island where it was supposed to be. Redwall islands have a nasty habit of disappearing when their part in a tale is over.  
Strongstripe rose groggily from his big dent in the sand. Pulling a face at the remains of the searat he'd squashed and swaying a bit drunkenly, he grinned at Portbelly and stumbled back up to the mountain.  
Portbelly smiled wryly and noted (as many hares had before him) that a post-Bloodwrath badger acted much like a hare coming off a sugar high. 


	3. Clanking Chains: Tomato's Abbey Revisite...

Thank ye to all those who have read and reviewed this series so far. Though I admit the first chapter was the best because it wasn't planned at all, it has been fun to continue the lampooning of various aspects of the Redwall series. Here, as requested by a couple of people, is the Generic Slave Tale.  
  
And now for the story...  
  
CLANKING CHAINS: TOMATO'S ABBEY REVISITED

Dawn was beginning to break over Redwall Abbey. In the half-dark, most beasts were sleeping where they had fallen; Redwall had vanquished yet another horde and had had a massive feast to celebrate. Many barrels and kegs of wine, ale, beer, and cordial had been rolled up from the cellars during the celebration. 

The Abbeybeasts wouldn't be waking up for a while.

One mouse leaned against the main doors, massaging his temples. Blast the dawn watch! His head was pounding from all the ale he'd quaffed the night before, and he was still tired. Besides that, he'd still have to climb all those stairs to the threshold, and the balloon-shaped creatures of Redwall avoided that whenever possible.

"Mawnen to 'ee, zurr!" It was Soildurt the mole, headed to the orchard to tend the crops.

The mouse noted wryly that moles held their liquor much better than he did as he waved a limp paw. "Mornin', sir mole." He smiled and almost fell forward.

The mole stopped, chuckling. "Hurr hurr, 'ee be a soight. P'raps oi better cumm back 'ere an' 'elp 'ee wi' watchin' arter oi digs ir'gation channel furr they arpel trees. 'Ee looks ready t'fall on you'm whickers, burr aye."

As the mole walked on, the mouse grinned as if it was all a joke, but he indeed made a full faceplant in the grass after Soildurt was out of sight.

At this, a band of ten Dibbuns (aged six seasons and under) emerged from a clump of bushes. Not allowed to sup the more alcoholic beverages and sent to bed early as usual, the young beasts were alert and ready for action.

Their leader, a small squirrel called Treejump, pointed a long stick forward. "Outen d'gate!" he called to the others with a loud whisper. Expertly they climbed on each other's shoulders and deftly undid the locks, opening the gates easily.

"4.67 seconds," whispered a young female otter called Streamsleek as they hurried off into the woods. "We gettin' better at dis!"

A small mole raised his digging claws to gain the squirrel's attention. "S'cuse oi, but whurr be us'n's goin'?"  
Treejump rolled his eyes dramatically. "I toldja! We all gunna be like Martin d'Warrior an' get lotsa nasty vermins!"

"Unless the nasty vermins get you first!" A weasel jumped out of the forest and used his staff to biff every last Dibbun senseless.

"You're positive?" yawned Abbot/Champion/Slayer Tomato.

"Aye." The fat vole nodded at the even tubbier mouse before him. "They were taken by a weasel and chained, then dragged off."

"How did you see this when it happened, but not tell us until noontide?" demanded the dangerously obese Abbot.

"Well, I actually made it up to the battlements this morning," the vole began, with a pointed glance at the mouse guard (stretched on the floor nearby in a drunken slumber). "I was exhausted from the climb and still woozy from last night's wine. When I saw it happen, I started to run to tell everyone...but I tripped over my own gut, fell down the stairs, and passed out from overstraining my lungs."

The Abbot sighed. "You should've known better. Running does that to a beast; you have to take it nice and slow when you raise the alarm." As the vole muttered his apologies, Tomato looked about him. "Are the hares ready to go?"

"Ready, aye!" The hares were always sent on journeys like this because it was hard for obese creatures to maneuver through forest and over hill. They were the only creatures who could manage Redwall eating habits and remain fit to fight and travel. The otters would have also been sent (as they had a great love of exercise and therefore stayed in shape), but they were somewhere in Mossflower having a massive otter bash.

"Headin' out right now, sah!" The leader of the four hare brothers was called Kickfoot. He sheathed his rapier with a flourish, loaded up a haversack, and marched for the door with his brothers behind him.

Only moments later, Kickfoot, Quickfoot, Swiftfoot, and Fastfoot were on the trail of the weasel and his captives.

"Up, ye layabouts! I'm tired of draggin' ye!" panted the weasel, dragging the running chain (with the Dibbuns attached) into a small creek.

"Worra dat?" growled Streamsleek, rubbing a bump between her ears.

"Burr, oi doan't loik watter," groaned the young mole, struggling to pull the others out of the creek with him.

"Why you got us all chained up?" demanded Treejump hotly.

The weasel smirked. "I'm gonna build an empire on yore backs, duh. But first, build me a sleepin' hut fer th'night. If yore gunna build castles fer me, y'might as well start small."

"No," said the young squirrel clearly.

The weasel was about to shout and beat his captives for punishment...when he saw their eyes.

Ten pairs of eyes from ten Dibbuns all under seven seasons old burned with battle light. The weasel screamed in terror as they all leapt up and attacked, regardless of the heavy chains that were weighing them down.

The hares heard the shout and ran toward it, drawing their weapons and steeling themselves for a fight. Leaping across the creek, they halted on the bank and stared.

The Dibbuns, overtaken by a Redwallish Bloodwrath of sorts, had torn the chains and manacles like breadsticks and left them in a twisted heap on the ground. The unconscious weasel lay on the bank, gagged with three of the little beasts' rope belts and hogtied with the other seven. The Dibbuns themselves sat calmly on a fallen log, eating scones from the haversack the weasel had stolen from them.

"Nuts!" cried Fastfoot, hurling his beret onto the ground. "We 'aven't saved anybeast in seasons, wot! All the captured Dibbuns turn into bally warriors before we can trounce th'villains an' become jolly heroes!"

"Aye, must be goin' t'bed early that makes 'em that way," grumbled Quickfoot.

"Ah, well; back to Redwall, then. Come along, you young beasts!" Swiftfoot turned and began to march home with the others.

Abbot Tomato stared sternly over his bulbous gut at the ten young miscreants. "Naughty Dibbuns! You put yourselves in danger and made me send out the hares!" He leaned closer and passed the sentence. "Baths for all of you!"

The Dibbuns glared back in unison, a small fire kindling in their eyes and growing larger by the second.

It is said that the Great Dibbun Watcher laughed that night, for Abbot Tomato and most of the Abbey elders went to bed smelling like daisies...after being involuntarily escorted to the bath chambers for a scrubbing by ten young Champions-to-be.


	4. Treetop Tragedy: A Tale of Revenge

The little squirrel Barkbutt skipped across the bright summer lawn happily, swinging a basket of wotsitberries at his side. He had been busy that day and was eager to show his mother what he had gathered. Looping the basket handle over one shoulder, he scaled their treehouse like an arrow shot from a bow… and stopped dead at the entrance.

Or, at least, his parents were stopped dead. In a more literal sense than the Dibbun squirrel would have liked. They lay sprawled on the wooden floor, horribly slain. Barkbutt, through his incredible sense of smell, knew at once that five foxes had been inside, and it was they who had killed his parents.

…Never mind how five foxes got up into a squirrel drey; that's not crucial to the plot.

Anyway, Barkbutt's cute little Dibbun eyes swelled with tears - and became a peculiar shade of crimson. Battlelust in a beast so young? Of course! With a roar of sorrow, the babe hefted his father's bow (which was twice his weight) over his head and vowed, "I swears to makea pincushion outta d'fox wot killed me daddy 'n' mum!"

Cut to a scene about twenty seasons later. Barkbutt, now a muscular adult squirrel, flitted through the trees. He was tracking a fox. This fox probably had nothing to do with his parents, but it made him feel happy to be chasing it anyway.

The fox looked over his shoulder and saw the squirrel was still hot on his trail. Whimpering in panic, he tried to push himself to go faster… but conveniently tripped over a log. In an instant, Barkbutt had stopped and nocked an arrow to his bowstring. Before the fox could cry for mercy, he was impaled by twenty arrows.

Barkbutt snickered, congratulating himself for his great skill… especially since he was self-trained. Leaping to the ground, he retrieved his arrows and frisked the slain fox for identification. He found a tag inside its ragged tunic collar, which read: "Official Minion of Vulpine Killers - 'We Murder Squirrel Families for Less!'" It then proceeded to give a location… which Barkbutt memorized, eyes burning in rage. Here was the crucial clue! Now he could find the foxes and avenge his parents!

"North Broadstream… fifth pine on your right…" Barkbutt mumbled to himself. "Ah, here we go… a brownstone castle, with sinister-looking gates. Here it is!" Unshouldering his bow, the squirrel warrior dashed inside.

"Ah… what have we here? A squirrel?" It was the lead fox, the one whose scent Barkbutt remembered especially well from that sorrowful day twenty seasons ago. He sat on a glided throne with his brothers and sisters, stroking his short whiskers and staring at Barkbutt. "Odd for a squirrel to show up for our services. You have a mother-in-law you'd like us to dispose of?"

The warrior squirrel snorted and fit an arrow to his bowstring. "I would never dream of doing business with you, vermin! You killed my family when I was a kid… and I hope to return the favor!"

The lead fox sighed and pulled a rope next to his throne. "Again? Man, I would never have got into this business if I'd known how persistent the survivors were at this 'revenge' thing." Pulling the rope caused a bell to ring loudly. As the noise died off, the lead fox leaned forward with an evil grin.

Barkbutt looked about him in shock as a horde of ninja weasels poured from every door and surrounded him. "Ninja weasels? Haven't these been used before?"

The lead fox shrugged. "Eh, yeah…. But they're better armed now. Besides, the phrase itself was so fun to say I couldn't help but hire 'em. 'Ninja weasels,' ee hee hee…"

The redness overtook Barkbutt and he began firing arrows madly. He didn't know how long after it was when his vision cleared. He panted in exhaustion as he looked around. Each weasel was pinned neatly between the eyes with one of his shafts. Man, so many arrows…

Barkbutt grabbed at his quiver and found it still full. "All right! Looks like Martin the Warrior has blessed me with Legolas' never-ending quiver! Now I can…" But he stopped short as he noticed the foxes slumped in their thrones, also dispatched with arrows.

"Aww man…" Barkbutt complained, kicking a helmet moodily. "I had a speech for 'em, too. Killed 'em much too fast, I did."

As he left the empty castle, the squirrel stumbled across a beautiful squirrel maid. They fell in love at once and decided to live out their days at Redwall. And so Barkbutt the Warrior entered Redwall, peacefully relinquished his bow, and lived there until the day he died, finally content (and with an ever-expanding waistline from the constant feasting). A happy ending indeed.


End file.
